


Sleight of Hand

by crality



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - GTA Kinda, Alternate Universe - Grifters, Alternate Universe Where Everyone Smokes, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-07 22:24:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3185444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crality/pseuds/crality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lonely and self-loathing is something Geoff is used to. Left at the altar just earlier that day and reduced to a bore in a tuxedo in a Houston bar, he meets a kid with a cocky attitude and a few bar tricks under his belt. But at least he's not bored anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Bum a smoke?”

The youth in front of Geoff would never be described as tall, but something about him is big. Geoff looks him over, his own cigarette tucked neatly between two bandaged knuckles. It’s summer in Houston, and Geoff is drinking. He’s half hanging off the side of the wooden railing, looking down at the maybe-homeless child with wary eyes and a cocked brow. Is this what Houston would be like?

“I’m fresh out.” Geoff finds his voice sticky, like glue in his whiskey numbed throat. He hasn’t spoken in hours, ordering drinks with taps on the slow-moving weekday bar.

“Bullshit!” The boy throws at him, and his accent is unfamiliar enough that Geoff squints down at him as if it might help him pinpoint what he’s hearing. He brings the cigarette back to his lips, stealing a moment of thought with the long inhale. He had more on his mind than some street urchin asking for a cigarette at some shitty hipster bar in the middle of Montrose. There were 40 bars along the streets of that neighborhood, plenty of which had more friendly conversationalists.

“Why bullshit?” Geoff probes, against his better judgement. Even as he calculates how long it would take to walk his ass to a new bar, his curiosity takes hold.

“‘Cause look at you!” The boy’s hands finally emerge from the worn leather jacket he’s been hiding in. His fingers are long and slender, which catches Geoff just a little off guard. He watches the hands gesture toward him, and his outfit he assumes. “Dressed to the nines in a shithole like this.” This time the elegant hands wave toward the big black and white sign above their heads. Cecil’s Pub. Yeah, it’s a shithole, but there’s outdoor seating abounding and a taco stand in the corner. The jukebox plays at a thunderous level inside, but outside it’s faint and good background music.

Geoff has to hand it to the kid. He’s right about the getup. He may have abandoned his jacket at his table, but it’s clear he’s come from some sort of occasion. His button down is a stark white and still tucked in, though the bow tie had long since been left to dangle against his chest. His pants have been ironed, and dress shoes poke from beneath the hems. He supposes he does look like he would have a few spare cigarettes.

“Tell you what,” Geoff starts, and his voice is mostly back, though lilting from the alcohol. “If you can get in this place, I’ll let you smoke to your little heart’s content.” He watches the boy’s face contort at the word ‘little’. It’s amusing and unexpected; it’s something Geoff hasn’t been looking for in the night, but that comes as a pleasant surprise.

“Shit.” The boy’s face is tilted toward the sidewalk now, and one of those big hands leafs through his sloppy curls as he considers the offer. Geoff waits for him to walk away. “You buy me a drink or two and I’ll bust the door down myself.” A smirk cracks onto Geoff’s face and after another stoic drag he nods his consent.

The boy’s grinning, feeling like he’s won, but Geoff keeps an eye on him as he skips a step up onto the porch. It’s no high class place, but they ID, and there’s no way this kid is over, what, nineteen? Geoff feels safe in his bet, flipping to lean his back against the railing as he watches the scene unfold.

To his goddamn second surprise of the night, and maybe to his delight, he’s left dumbstruck as the kid grabs the doorman’s hand and pulls him into a chest-bump kind of hug. No one even considers checking this idiot’s ID, no one bats an eye as he high fives the barback keeping company at the door.

“Well, fuck,” Geoff mutters, downing the watery mixture of his almost forgotten drink. He lifts himself up off the rail, flicking his cigarette butt into the street and meeting his new companion midway. “You’re an asshole.”

“Born and raised.” The boy chirps, hands back in the pockets of the leather, which Geoff can now see is a rusty red color. In the light, the kid looks a tad cleaner than he had down below. He’s pale and thin and has a bit of a bruise leftover from some fight, Geoff’s sure, on his cheekbone. His jeans are distressed, not so much dirty. His sneakers are worn, not old. The two of them look ridiculous in contrast. Geoff’s seen a million versions of this kid on the road. The chipper thief with a heart of gold. He made a mental note to keep his eye on his wallet. “So, how about that cigarette?” A hand darts out of his pocket, knocking playfully at Geoff’s shoulder - it’s received by a warning glance, and the kid retreats it back to its home.

“Drinks first. C’mon.” Geoff wonders idly if he’s making a mistake. The day has been very, very long and he’s drunk and easily amused. But what could it hurt, really? Some drinks and smokes with the kid, maybe a sloppy blowjob if he’s down, then hole up at Ryan’s until the hangover wears off. It’s the perfect cure for the shittiest day known to mankind.

The kid’s just as chummy with the employees as he had been a moment ago, and Geoff holds the door open and watches them interact. He must have been to the bar a thousand times, probably always bumming off easy targets. Finally, Geoff taps his hand against the wood and the kid snaps out of his conversation and shimmies through the entrance with a quick apology. The bartenders know him, too. As soon as they’re inside, where it’s loud and dark and crummy, his name is being called.

“Michael!” How boring, Geoff thinks to himself. He nods to the bartender who’d helped him before, and then toward Michael as well. If they know him so well, he’s got to have a regular. “How you been, kid?” Geoff leans his elbows onto the bar to watch Michael and the staff talk, but it’s just superficial, in and out questions. He sips his whiskey and coke as it appears in front of him. Michael takes the can of some local IPA without looking away from the bartender with whom he’s enraptured in conversation.

Geoff starts to wonder why he’s even there. He runs a thumb over the lip of his glass, his head heavy and weaving. He’s been had, he’s sure - conned out of a few bucks and the assumption of a good time. He’s not hurt. It’s not like he hasn’t conned a few good men out of drinks before. Just as he’s decided he’s going to pay his tab and hit the street, he feels a heavy thud on his upper arm and glances up to see Michael grinning at him.

“Come on, dude! You owe me that cigarette.” Michael’s all smiles, now, and nodding toward the door with exaggerated expectancy. Geoff huffs an empty laugh and slides off his barstool, letting the boy take the lead as they shoulder their way back out into the heat. Houston is humid. Geoff is used to sticky hot weather, bearing down around bodies and thick in your lungs. He’s not bothered by the layer of sweat that coats everything in the South.

“Buddy, hey.” Geoff barks, stopping Michael in his tracks as he’s about to pass by the row of tables Geoff’s already established as his area. He turns and passes two empty picnic tables before taking his seat at the corner of a third, where his jacket lays waiting for him. Michael’s not far behind, and to Geoff’s third surprise of the night, the boy glides around the table and sits next to the older man on his side of the table. “You’re a friendly fucker, aren’t you?”

Michael’s laughing. It’s a tight, sure laugh of confidence. The boy’s teeth are whiter than Geoff expects, his smile just big enough to be genuine.

“I make friends, alright? It’s what I do. And you kinda look like you need a couple of those.” Michael’s nodding toward the empty table. The drinks Geoff’s had have been bussed, but there are dark rings in the wood revealing how long he’d been stewing out in the heat.

“Oh, fuck off.” Geoff presses through a smile, heavy lidded eyes watching his own hands as he fiddles with the rim of his glass again. He taps the side, leaning heavily on the table.

“No can do.” Michael’s the perfect picture of ego. He brings a foot up to the bench, sitting on it as he twirls his beer around before taking a big gulp. Geoff watches him contentedly, wondering if he’d looked like that back in his days on the street. He wondered if he’d ever been so sure of himself, or if he’d always been a miserable old man. “We’re smoking, aren’t we, dude?”

Geoff’s stirred back to life and he snags his cigarette case from the pocket of his jacket, flipping it open and offering Michael first pick. He lights his own and without asking, Michael snags the lit cig and lights his with it.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah. Any time.”

“Aw, now, don’t flatter me.” Michael never stops smiling, and Geoff starts to feel a heavy doubt in the bottom of his drunken stomach. No one’s that happy. No one’s that friendly. This has to be an act. 

“I’m Geoff.” The man finally mutters over the rim of his glass, guessing that Michael isn’t gonna ask.

“Geoff. Got it. Michael. So, you gonna tell me why you’re in a penguin suit in the middle of summer?” Geoff’s starting to feel himself try to catch up to Michael’s speed. He’s sluggish from drink and circumstance, but Michael’s a steam engine who isn’t going to wait for him.

“I was supposed to get married today.” Michael snorts and smoke pours out of his nose. He’s looking at Geoff, waiting for more. They stare at each other, Geoff daring Michael to push forward.

“Damn, dude.” Michael takes the hint, ashing the cigarette with practiced ease and shifting to take another sip of beer. “Shit luck. Girl would be lucky to land a stud like you.”

Oh, jesus. Geoff rolls his eyes and takes a deep drink of his whiskey, needing to be burned from the inside out to purge him of such a stupid comment. He isn’t entirely sure why it stings so deeply to be hit on by some stranger in the back of a bar. This is his element, his shallow ego being splashed by flirty younger idiots. But tonight he just wants to drink some more.

That blow job isn’t looking too far out of sight, though.

“Look,” Michael starts, meeting Geoff’s eyes and probably sensing the shift they’d gone through with one comment. “You look like you need some fun tonight, so here I am. I’m fun. I’m a barrel of fucking monkeys and you need to let loose and play. Alright?” They’re staring at each other again, Michael finishing his beer and crushing it against the table. After a long, bitter sizeup, Geoff exhales smoke and shrugs one shoulder as a concession. 

“Yeah. Yeah, alright, show me what you got.”

“Okay,” Michael’s brimming with energy and it’s hard not to let some of it sink into Geoff. He watches the boy wiggle in his seat and a smirk catches fire and spreads to a grin. “I’m gonna get us free drinks, but I need your help, yeah?”

“Yeah, sure. Free drinks can get my help any time.” Geoff raises his eyebrow, now, his whole face spread open and waiting.

“Okay. I need twenty dollars.” Even Michael laughs at the request, but as Geoff starts to protest, Michael presses on. “Look, you’re gonna walk away a richer man, and with a drink no one paid for alright? I’ve never done this shit here, we’re gonna make out like bandits.”

Geoff still hems and haws, swishing the melted ice in his glass around as he groans. “Look, I just moved here, I’m not about to get kicked out of some shithole my first night.”

“You won’t be if you follow my lead.” Geoff meets Michael’s eye. There’s something about the cocky piece of shit that’s getting to Geoff. Maybe the fact that this is a new start. The boy doesn’t know anything about him - doesn’t know he’s spent years conning bars out of more than drinks. He’s ruined peoples’ lives just for cash. Michael thinks he’s teaching Geoff something, and it’s nice to be the patsy for once.

“Yeah. Alright, fine, give me the plan.” Geoff lifts up to fetch his wallet, sliding a 20 dollar bill out like it’s nothing and placing it in the middle of Michael’s waiting palm. He clutches onto the boy’s hand, squeezing tight. “And look, if you fuck me over, I’ll fuck you.” Quiet settles and Michael, the asshole, is smirking.

“I’m counting on it.”

\--

Michael doesn’t need Geoff’s help for the first trick. In fact, it’s one of Geoff’s favorite little bar tricks, and he’s delighted in listening to the boy explain it as if he’d never never taken a pair of wire cutters to a penny himself. They hit the bar separately, taking seats a few stools apart as Michael gets to work.

“Hey, Barbara!” Michael calls, leaning into the bar and waving her over. She gives him a look that makes Geoff snort so he adjusts to look casual again. “Barb, god dammit, c’mere!”

“Suck my dick, give me a second!” She snaps back, practically throwing change at the poor girl in front of her and stalking over on Michael’s demand. “What do you want, you wanna drink? You need a diaper change? Spit it out.” She’s not tough. She’s tall and skinny and her blonde hair is spilling out of what must have been a more intricate bun at the beginning of her shift. But Geoff wouldn’t wanna mess with her - there is something sneaky in her voice. Like she knew too much.

“Pick a number between two and ninetynine.” Michael says abruptly, settling his elbows onto the bar now that he has her attention. He’s smooth and collected and Geoff wonders how long he’s been playing these tricks. He can’t be older than his mid-twenties, IF that, so how many years had he spent getting fucked over before he figured out how to jack a bar of twenty bucks? Geoff felt an odd sense of concern for a younger Michael, trying and failing to be tough.

“What is this, some kind of magic trick?” Barbara pokes, leaning on the shelf behind her as she watches Michael grin.

“Yeah, kinda. Here’s the deal,” Barbara’s grinning at Michael as he reaches into his pockets, fishing around for some change. He emerges with a handful, keeping it closed, palm down. “You pick a number, we do some simple math, and if it adds up to what I’ve got, I win. If not, you win.” Geoff is openly watching them, now, sipping on the dregs of his nearly forgotten drink. A few others are peering over, too, and Michael seems to shine brightest when all eyes are on him. “Deal?”

“Deal.” Barb’s ready to win, Geoff can tell. She bounces from one foot to the other, she and Michael locked in some kind of battle for attention. “I pick thirty nine.”

“Alright.” Michael pretends to think, as if the equation is coming off the top of his head. “Add up the two digits, yeah?” Barbara nods, says ‘twelve’ with another bounce back and forth. “Now minus that from your number.”

“Like from my new number or my original number?” Barb questions, and Michael presses his free hand to his temple like he’s about to lose it.

“Your original number, dumbass, come on! Keep up.” He eyes her and she’s laughing, nodding.

“Thirty nine minus twelve. Twenty seven, got it.” Michael gives her a second, cocking his head to the side as if she’s gotten the wrong answer. She pauses, and then scoffs, reaching out to knock his shoulder. “It’s twenty seven!” Geoff realizes he’s beaming.

“Okay, alright. Add those two digits up, now.”

“I didn’t know I’d need algebra for this magic trick, jesus.” Barb mocks, before leaning her hands to the bar and bending over to meet him eye-level. “Got it, nine, what now?”

“Divide that by two.” Barbara is grinning ear to ear, now, and she taps Michael’s hand with two fingers.

“You said I win if it’s not what you have in your hand, right?” The look she has is devlish, and Michael gives her a confused look, but he nods. “Let’s put some money on that real quick. Twenty says I win. Same for you if I lose.” Geoff has to press his mouth closed and look away, a howl of laughter bubbling inside of his stomach and dying down as quickly as it came. Michael had her by the puppet strings, and he glances back just in time to see the boy’s face fall as he fakes a realization. “Four point five! You got half a penny? Didn’t think so!”

“Aw, shit, Barb.” Michael whines, looking utterly defeated as she laughs in his face and sticks out a hand to accept her prize. “Looks like,” He looks up at her through half-lidded, disappointed eyes and flips open his palm, revealing not only four pennies, but what looks like a coin that’s been maybe bitten in half. It’s half a fucking penny. “You owe me twenty fucking bucks!”

The small crowd that’s gathered around erupts and Geoff takes his cue to join them, sidling up to Michael as if he’s fact checking the change in his hand. As soon as Geoff’s done examining it, Michael slaps the pennies into Barb’s still outstretched hand, and she tosses them into the crowd without a beat.

“You’re a piece of shit, you know that!” She whines. “That was so cheap, wow.” But she’s freeing her wallet from the back pocket of her jeans, tossing twenty dollars at Michael. “I can’t believe I fell for that shit, that was so cheap. God, that deserves a shot.” Michael’s laughing hard, now, eyeing Geoff with a smugness that is actually stupidly endearing. Geoff remembers the after-grift feeling. That elated bubbling in his tummy, like he could do anything. He hopes Michael never stops feeling like that.

Barbara pours Michael a shot of whiskey, and one for herself as a consolation prize, and they slam the table and throw them back together. The crowd is starting to disperse, so Michael stands on the footrest and raises his voice. “I got another one for you guys!” A few people turn their heads and gather back around, and Michael’s absolutely high with attention. “This one involves fire.”

Barbara’s on her toes, leaned over the bar and faux-glaring at Michael. “Don’t fuck me over again!” She mutters, low, so only Michael (and Geoff, who’s close enough that he has a hand on Michael’s back) can hear her. The boy doesn’t seem put off by it at all. In fact, he’s grinning and he gives her a little drunken snarl in return. Geoff feels something tug in his belly at the noise, and his hand slips off of Michael’s shoulder blade and onto the back of his chair.

The promise of fire and the intense glare off between the bartender and the magician has really caused a stir, and people are chattering around them, now. Geoff knows his place in this con. He keeps close to Michael, but keeps himself open enough to have space to sidle out at any moment.

“Okay.” Michael starts, lifting his hands up over his head and shutting up the drunks around him. “This one’s really good, Barb, keep up, okay?” Barbara rolls her eyes, crooking both her hands in front of her in a ‘bring it on’ motion. “You gotta trust me. But I need twenty bucks from somewhere secure, alright?” Without hesitation, Barbara spins around and opens the register. She slams twenty bucks onto the counter, once more challenging Michael with a look.

Geoff glances at Michael, trying to catch his eye, but the boy’s caught up in his scam. He wonders how long he’d been going to this bar - how he’d established such a strong trust with the bartender. He’s seen this trick pulled off before, but it takes smooth talking and deliberate buttering up. Michael’s ripped her off twenty, and here she is begging for more. Geoff hadn’t expected to meet someone he actually admires, but he feels pride swell as he watches Michael inspect the bill and then push it back toward Barbara.

“Okay, just so we all know this is yours, go ahead and sign it.” The boy produces a black marker from his jacket pocket, setting it on top of the twenty. Barbara scoops it up and signs it with malice, glaring at Michael as she slides it back to his side of the counter. “Cool, good, great, everyone see?” He makes a show of holding the bill above his head, and as he gets to Geoff, he braves a wink at the man. Schoolboy flutters happen somewhere in the cavern of Geoff’s chest, and he grits his teeth, forcing himself to watch Michael crumple the bill into a ball. “Alright, Barb, I need a napkin and a shot glass if you could?”

As she complies, Michael’s hand bumps Geoff’s thigh. He glances down, so focused on keeping his sudden crush in check that he’d almost forgotten his side of the deal. He cups his hand over Michael’s, snagging the ball of a bill up and shuffling out of his little corner of the crowd. Michael’s still narrating every step of his plan as Geoff makes his way around the corner of the bar, where the barback is struggling to keep up with drinks while Barbara is being ripped off.

He can still see Michael clearly from his spot, and he feels safe. Everyone’s enraptured by the boy, and with a more clear head than he’d had in the past few hours, it’s not hard to see why. The boy’s not just some street rat bumming for cigarettes. He’s magic.

Geoff unfolds the twenty, smoothing it out best he can before ordering his drink from a nervous-looking barback. “Whiskey neat with a water back.” He mutters, trying to order smoothly and still watch Michael. The boy’s tucked the crumpled bill - a one dollar bill hidden in his sleeve - into the napkin, then lit it on fire inside the shot glass. There’s no trouble. The kid takes the twenty and slams it into the register, bringing Geoff back a handful of bills for change along with two glasses. Geoff nods his thanks and the kid quickly moves onto the next guest, sweat on his brow and looking absolutely bushed.

The little gathering has really fallen for Michael. They’re in awe. He’s just set the bar’s money on fire, dumped the ashes onto the counter, and Barbara’s looking like she’s gonna punch him square in the jaw.

“Wait! Wait, wait, wait, maybe I did it wrong.” Michael’s obviously playing at something, lifting his ass off the stool and leaning onto the counter with his elbows. He mocks consideration, making an ‘mmm’ sound as Barbara grows more and more livid. “I dunno. Check the register.” She stalks over, and Geoff stills for a moment as he watches her. He can see her face go from darkened and angry to sudden shock. Awe. She lifts the bill, her name written across the side, out of the register and holds it up so the whole bar can see it.

Geoff takes his shot as the bar bursts with activity. People are shaking Michael’s shoulders, pointing at the bill, confused and maybe horrified. Someone has bent over, sorting through the ashes as if they might find the answer there. Michael just smirks, head tilted into his hand as he watches Barbara put the money back into the register and dart back over. He’s surprised by a hug, tight around his shoulders and over the bar.

“Jesus, Barb, you’d think I brought you back to life!”

“I was gonna be in deep shit if that didn’t show up. You gotta do that again sometime when Lindsay’s here. She’d finally let you take her out.” Barb falls back off the counter, fixing her hair as Michael makes a face at her and Geoff, across the bar and alone now, stifles a strangely jealous stab. “Alright, you assholes, enough gawking! Let’s order some drinks!”

Everyone’s swept back up into the routine of the bar. The next time Geoff takes a glance over, Michael’s gone. He resigns, again, to the fact that maybe he’s too old for this shit. He’s too weary. He downs the water and stacks his glasses, pushing them toward the bar as he sighs and starts to get out of his seat.

“Where you goin’?” Michael’s voice startles Geoff and he squeaks, his voice cracking for the first time that night. It’s enough to make Michael crack a grin, snorting a laugh on top of it. “Jesus, did you shit your pants?”

“A little, maybe.” Geoff pretends to adjust his pants, which he quite suddenly remembers are too terribly nice. “God, I hope they take this tuxedo back.” Michael barks a laugh and looks Geoff up and down. He’s being obvious, hands in his pockets as he raises a brow and meets Geoff’s eyes again.

“I’m running to the bathroom. I’ll meet you at the table?”

Geoff considers himself for one moment. He knows Michael is the star of the place right now. He’s fucking glowing, a sheen of sweat over his brow that Geoff would like nothing more than to press into the wall of the bathroom stall. But Michael’s at least 15 years his minor. He’s a little spitfire street magician, or something like that, and he’s pretty. God, he’s pretty. His hands have returned from his pockets, knuckles cracking as he waits for Geoff’s answer, and the older man is mesmerized by the slender digits again.

“I’ll come with.” He replies suddenly, and as they walk side by side, Geoff silently slides a hand under the boy’s jacket. His fingers meet Michael’s lower back and he doesn’t flinch even for a second. They just march their way past the pool tables, ducking into the bathroom and straight for a big, closed in stall.

Michael takes Geoff by the undone bowtie, dragging the man against his body and pressing his back against the wall. It’s cramped in the stall, but Geoff’s hand ventures lower and over Michael’s jeans, lifting him by his ass so he can press between his knees and sink into a wild kiss. Michael’s mouth is hot and pliant and Geoff’s tongue is immediate, raking over the top of the boy’s mouth as their bodies press tighter at Michael’s insistence.

Those fucking hands are wrapped tight around either end of Geoff’s tie, tugging for life as Michael grinds his hips forward against Geoff’s thigh. Quick, strained moans escape from the boy and into Geoff’s mouth, and the older man squeezes hands between them to get to the soft skin just above his waistband.

“This the kind of fun you wanted to show me?” Geoff hisses, rearing back so Michael has to let go of him. His hand sinks into Michael’s unbuckled jeans and he palms neatly at his dick, surprised by just how hard the boy is for him already. Michael’s answer turns to a moan as he melts like putty under Geoff’s touch, leaning his head back against the wall. Maybe this is an act, too. Just like every little play he’d made with Barbara. Geoff doesn’t care if he’s being had. He pulls his hand back up to his face, gathering spit in his mouth and licking his palm with a wide, wet tongue.

Michael whimpers. He whimpers like he’s lost as Geoff slicks his cock with spit, pumping him long and slow, letting him burn up on the inside. His jeans have slid to his knees and Geoff helps his boxers down to meet them. Michael’s cock is pink, with freckles sprinkling the base and rather surprisingly, a mostly groomed bit of hair the same rusty color as his head. Geoff presses a thumb to the tip carefully, then brings it to his mouth and presses it against his tongue, tasting the salty sweat of a Texas summer mixed with the bitterness of precum. Michael twitches in his hand.

“How do you want it?” Geoff mutters deeply into Michael’s ear, whiskey breath like steam against his neck. Michael’s jaw bumps close to Geoff’s and they’re kissing again, Michael’s teeth sinking into Geoff’s pouty lower lip as soon as the hand on his dick starts to pick up speed. When they part, Michael tilts his head down, watching Geoff get him off with a practiced hand.

“Just use your hands.” Michael says quickly, glancing at Geoff like he’s almost embarrassed for some reason. “I wanna watch you. I wanna see your hands.” Geoff feels like he’s hearing his own thoughts spill out of Michael. He pauses for a moment, and Michael’s needy whine brings him back. “Please, Geoff, please make me cum.”

Under Geoff’s hand, Michael’s gotten small. He’s like a teenager being jerked off for the first time, watching Geoff move to his knees to get a better angle. He runs his thumb up the base of Michael’s dick, pressing firmly at the head as he tongues up the trail the thumb has left. But Michael keeps insisting, keeps dragging fingers through Geoff’s hair whenever he tries to use his mouth, pulling his head away. “I wanna see. Please, please, Geoff.” 

The begging sends hot pokers down Geoff’s stomach, his own cock twitching in his pants. But Michael’s almost undone, bucking hips against Geoff’s fist. The man ventures another hand, again slicked with spit, to Michael’s balls and rolls them carefully, feeling for the tug. He presses a finger against the soft skin behind them, and Michael bleats out another plea. Geoff spaces a glance up at the suddenly angel-faced boy, pressing the now-idle finger against his lips. Michael quiets, his eyebrows knit together with the effort, his own beautiful fingers tucked into his mouth. Geoff eyes Michael’s pink lips sucking on fingers like a child, and he has to grit his teeth for a moment because he needs them around his cock. 

Instead, he slides two fingers knuckle deep into his mouth, bringing them out dripping and returning the hand to Michael’s balls. He keeps a steady rhythm on his cock - he’s not a monster - and starts to time it with the motion on Michael’s balls. The boy’s breathing heavily against his fingers, now, watching Geoff intently. He’s rocking against Geoff, holding his breath. Geoff can tell he’s holding his breath, and he wonders if someday he’d be able to wrap his hand around Michael’s throat and do it for him. He’s almost distracted from his duty, fuzzy brained and damp at the base of his neck and the backs of his knees.

He regains momentum, watching Michael’s face as he quietly presses one of his wet fingers against the boy’s ass. Michael’s eyes shoot open wide, and he bucks suddenly against Geoff, nodding big and slow so Geoff knows to slide deeper inside of him. The sway of his hand against Michael’s balls helps rock his finger slowly into his hole, feeling him sink against him, just as pliant as his kisses.

A second finger issues no problems, and Geoff is soon easily managing every inch of Michael. He pumps him quickly, tucking the head of his cock against his lips and letting his tongue lap around the edges. He continues with Michael’s request though, his hands working him up and down, faster and faster. Two fingers crooking against his prostate because Michael isn’t quiet anymore. He’s possibly crying, possibly shouting, but he’s definitely cumming hard into Geoff’s mouth, pushing forward so finally the man can get a good taste of him. Both of his hands find Michael’s ass and bring him forward, burying the other man’s cock into his mouth, swallowing hard against it.

Michael’s weak kneed and he sinks, holding onto a toilet paper dispenser for life, watching Geoff wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. He kicks his jeans up into his hands, as if he’s had them around his ankles in a bar bathroom a thousand times, and buckles them with a sudden devious smirk.

“Are you spent, old man, or do you wanna see what I’ve got?” It’s like the whimpering baby Geoff had melted a minute ago is gone, replaced by the same fiery criminal he’d met earlier that night. Geoff cocks a brow, sitting back on his feet and shrugging both his hands to either side.

“Show me what you got, buddy.” Michael brings Geoff to his feet, rising to his toes as he delivers another needy kiss. This time he’s in charge, pushing the man against the opposite wall and lifting him just a hair onto the handrail. “You’re like a lion cub learning how to lead the pack.” Geoff mutters into Michael’s mouth, and he’s rewarded with another playful growl that sends electricity through his limbs. “Get on your knees, kid.”

Michael obeys without a word, which is one of the countless surprises of Geoff’s night. He’s coy and cocky all at the same time, deftly removing Geoff’s belt and swiping his pants and underwear down all at once. Geoff usually hates the bounce a very ready cock does when suddenly freed, but Michael watches him playfully, grabbing his dick with two hands and immediately sinking his mouth onto him. The deeper he goes, and he goes slowly, the more fingers he removes. Geoff watches pink lips creep lower, and lower, until Michael’s nose is touching his belly and Geoff’s stunned and letting a rough moan escape him. 

Michael pops off with a grin, returning Geoff’s not so subtle gesture and pressing a ‘be quiet’ finger to his lips. Geoff doesn’t think he’s being all that loud and he knits his brows, rocking his hips forward. Michael snickers, inching his knees forward and taking Geoff’s cock in his hand again.

He’s just as agonizingly slow this time, sliding wet lips up and down either side. He’s kind of sloppy, Geoff remarks, but it’s tantalizing. Like he’s too good to be neat. Spit drips over his jaw, running down Geoff’s dick and over his balls. Michael lets it happen until it’s so disgustingly ticklish that Geoff might scream, and then he lifts a hand and wipes it back up, rolling Geoff’s balls as he mouths at his cock again. His breath is warm. It’s hot and sticky and Geoff wants more and more of it, drinking it in as he leans into Michael’s mouth and pulls back out again.

Michael keeps still for him, Geoff’s hands finding their place in curls and digging deeply, using their hold to push the other man’s mouth down to the base of his cock and back up. A slow, steady rhythm that won’t get him off, but is enough to make him tilt his head back against the wall. Eventually Michael takes back control, one hand wrapped around Geoff’s cock while he pulls his head back to regain some breath. He drags his tongue up as he goes, continuing to lap at the head even as he gasps for air, eyeing the man above him.

Geoff peers down at him as well, belly rising and falling with deep, heavy breaths as the boy pumped him carefully. “You’re doing so good.” Geoff whispers in spite of himself. He runs a thumb over Michael’s temple, his cheekbone, and watches as the man tilts into it a little. Fondness rushes over Geoff and he feels a little sick - he can’t be so smitten with a bar bathroom fuck. But then again, he couldn’t do a lot of things he’d done in his life.

Instead of making himself sick with doubt, Geoff lets his thumb trail down to Michael’s mouth. He slides the digit between his lips, hooking behind his teeth and pulling him farther back down his obscenely wet dick. “Keep sucking, okay?” He mutters, and Michael hums his approval against hand and cock, tongue circling both. “You gotta make me cum. I’m gonna cum into your throat, yeah, Michael?” More little hums and groans escape Michael as he picks up speed, Geoff’s thumb spreading a wet stripe across the man’s cheek as it retreats.

Michael’s thoroughly working, now, bobbing up and down and only pausing to suck deep at the head of Geoff’s dick. “Do you like that?” Michael’s whining, now. “You like me fucking your mouth, hm?” Geoff rocks against the force and they’re moving together, now, meeting in the middle. Geoff’s trying hard to keep his voice steady, his hand back in Michael’s hair, pushing him forward with every thrust. “God, I love fucking your mouth. You’d being such a good boy, you’re fucking amazing.” Michael’s eyes are watering, but he’s eager and scooting closer, hand rolling at Geoff’s balls and mouth tightening with quick swallows. “You ready, Michael? I’m gonna cum. I wanna cum all over you, god, Michael, you’re so good.” Geoff’s reduced to rough, throaty noises as Michael rears back and keeps the pace on his cock with his hand. He tilts his head back, letting Geoff’s orgasm streak his face, landing over his cheeks and lips and nose.

Geoff’s never seen someone so happy to have cum all over their face. They both laugh, Michael stiff as a board and sitting back on his feet, looking up at Geoff with expectancy.

“Well? Can a guy get a cleanup over here?” They’re laughing again, grinning at each other until a noise makes both of them twitch to the side. The bathroom door swings open and someone comes in still singing whatever’s on the jukebox in the bar. Quietly, Geoff lifts and buckles his pants, adjusting just a little to the warmth of being wet inside his briefs. “Hey.” Michael whispers, barely audible over their fellow occupant’s singing. The boy points to his face, urging Geoff silently.

‘Sorry,’ Geoff mouths, kneeling down and uncurling toilet paper from the dispenser behind Michael. He wraps it up and gently wipes at Michael’s face, licking his thumb and running it over the spots where the paper tried to stay behind. After a moment, Geoff’s done dabbing at Michael’s face. Michael’s back to his usual bravado, all smirks and shoulder shrugs, but Geoff has the image of him staring down at him with fingers shoved in his mouth, pleading him, tears in his eyes, burned into his brain. He leans forward and kisses the boy’s pink lips, hand on either side of his face, cupping his jaw as he presses something tender and too loving into him.

“Hey,” Michael murmurs against Geoff’s lips, voice still hidden by their roommate. “Thanks for getting me off.” One slender hand reaches up to pat Geoff’s cheek, thumb pinching at the fine stubble left there from the morning’s shave. “I’ll meet you at the table, okay?”

\--

Geoff’s too dazed to do anything but beeline for his bench. His jacket is still there, stunningly enough, and as soon as he sits down he lights himself a cigarette. The smoke is smooth against his throat, which he guesses has been closed pretty tight.

What the fuck is happening? He checks his phone for the time, sliding it back in his pocket. About twelve hours ago he was supposed to be getting married. He’d stood there like an idiot. He’d waited for her, near tears with excitement, because a piece of shit like him had landed the most beautiful woman in Travis County. And now he’s post-coital, sucking down on a cigarette for life, and he’d be surprised if Michael shows back up at the table at all.

Geoff looks down at the table, littered with sharpie graffiti of varying degrees of skill. A portrait of couples in a cartoony style, Garfield with a big dick, big block letters spelling out someone’s name. He trails a finger over one quote, written in simple handwriting.

‘Anything but to crash on the rocks of mediocrity.’

He swallows hard, spreading his hand over the words so he doesn’t have to see them again, and looks up to find Michael approaching the table with drinks in tow.

“Surprise, surprise!” Michael chirps, pushing a fresh whiskey and coke across the picnic table and taking a quick drink of his. “Jesus, Barb, she’s trying to pass us out. I think she knows.” Michael makes a fake ribbing motion, and Geoff slowly smiles. Surprise after surprise. He takes a swig of his own drink and it really is strong.

“You think she’ll notice the almost twenty missing from the register?” Geoff questions, and for a moment he thinks maybe a bit of regret passes over Michael.

“Yeah, probably. This is one of those fake hip places, dude. The boss is a real asshole. It’ll just come out of her tips, but I dunno if she’ll realize it was me.” Geoff watches Michael line the rim of his glass with a finger, the same way he did when he was worried, and he reaches over to pull his hand off and away, palm up.

“Whatever, dude. Believe me, you’re cool enough for somewhere else.” Michael snorts a laugh, pulling his hand away and taking a long sip of his drink. “You wanna smoke?”

“Yeah!” Michael chirps, taking the cigarette offered. “You wanna see a trick?”

“Am I gonna be out another twenty you don’t use?” Michael looks offended, gesturing toward the drinks and grinning through his cigarette.

“What do you think bought these drinks?” They laugh, loud and hard, and Geoff nods slow as he drags on his cigarette. “Aw, c’mon, I paid your tab, too. I’m not a total asshole.”

“Yeah, alright, show me a trick.”

Michael produces a book of matches from his jacket, and folds the flap over backwards with one hand. With the same hand, he seems to just snap and it’s on fire. One cocked brow toward Geoff, and he lights the cigarette and shakes the match out.

“Cool, right?” Geoff rolls his eyes and snatches the book from Michael. The boy looks a little surprised, faltering to catch the cigarette before it falls from his mouth. He watches as Geoff repeats the trick flawlessly, and then maybe just to piss Michael off, he presses the lit match to his tongue and flicks it back in front of the boy. “Well, fuck me, too.”

“Maybe I will.” They grin at each other, quiet for a moment and just smoking. Just drinking. Michael’s foot bumps Geoff’s under the table and they’re still quiet, watching each other. “You got anything else to show me?” Geoff finally questions, and Michael visibly perks.

“Actually, yeah.” Michael produces a phone out of his pocket and Geoff eyes it curiously. Are they going to exchange phone numbers? Is it selfie time? God, Geoff hasn’t had to take a selfie with a date since Gavin. He straightens up a little, running finger and thumb over his mustache. “What are you doing, dude?” Michael watches Geoff, who deflates just a little, hand sinking back to the rim of his glass.

“Nothing. What is it?” He gestures toward the phone.

“It’s the guy from the bathroom’s phone. He dropped it.” Quiet understanding pours through Geoff and he tries not to let it show. New man. New tricks. He’s supposed to be reinventing himself in Houston - he’s a man who doesn’t know the old broken phone trick. “If you watch my back, we’ll probably be able to get at least a hundred bucks from the chicks in the woo-girl dresses.” He nods toward a group of twenty-somethings across the patio. “All you gotta do is watch, make sure I don’t get my ass kicked.”

Geoff quietly sizes them up. They’ve got shot glasses stacked pretty high, along with their drink glasses. They’re celebrating something - maybe graduation. They’ve all gotten food from the truck, eaten it, and returned to drinking. They have money. No one looks particularly threatening, especially if caught off guard. Geoff figures it's worth a shot. Especially with someone like Michael - a bruise still colored on his cheekbone, the way his eyes look mean if he tries hard enough. He’ll let the kid try it.

“Yeah. Yeah, alright, let’s do it. Show me what you got.” Geoff feels flutters as he says those words again, and he glances at Michael to catch him smirking. He’s got the phone in his hand and he lifts his glass suddenly.

“Cheers, dude!” He shouts, and Geoff has to scurry to catch up and clink his glass to Michael’s. He watches him as the boy downs his glass and then brings it back down with a slam, masking the sound as he uses his other hand to slam the phone against the table. Geoff tries to time it right so he’s the distraction just moments after Michael’s. “Nice,” Michael murmurs to himself, flipping the phone over to reveal deep cracks in the lower pane of glass, the top one nearly shattered. “Alright, watch my ass, okay?”

Geoff nearly chokes out a ‘literally’, still wiping at his face from downing so much coke along with the whiskey. He does watch Michael get up, though, and weave through tables as he tries to time his walk just right. Geoff’s admiration for Michael is steadily growing. The boy has no shame, no fear. None of the shit that’s kept Geoff at bay for years, kept him under someone else’s thumb even when he was the best at what he did. Michael can be the best if he wants.

Geoff scoots to the end of his bench as Michael approaches the kids, ready to bolt to the rescue if he's needed. But it looks like it goes right. Someone gets to their feet - a kind of sweet-looking girl with a high ponytail - just as Michael’s passing by and he speeds up enough to knock into her with a pretty solid amount of force. The phone flies to the floor. His drink knocks up onto his shirt. He hits the ground dramatically, knocking his knee against the bench nearest to him. The kid doesn’t play. ‘Sorry’s and ‘oh my god’s are exclaimed, and Michael shoots a hand out to grab the phone.

“Jesus!” He shouts, dragging himself to his feet to wave the phone in the girl’s face. This is the part where Michael turns into a total dick - this is the part Geoff had trouble with when he’d been grifting. The girl looks absolutely traumatized, looks ten years younger as Michael shouts at her. “You fucking broke my phone! You’re fucking paying for this, jesus christ, can you look where you’re going for one goddamn minute? What kind of entitled bullshit do you think you’re pulling! This is brand new! I just got this, man, you gotta pay for this!”

There’s a slight pause and Geoff knows something’s going wrong. During the course of Michael’s monologue, the girl has gained a more offended look than a frightened one. Geoff steadies himself, ready to jump to Michael’s side.

“That’s my boyfriend’s phone.” She suddenly interrupts, reaching out with no trace of fear and stopping Michael’s waving hands. She has him by the wrist, her other hand wrenching the phone from his hand. “This is my boyfriend’s case. This is my boyfriend’s phone.”

Michael’s stunned, and the whole table around him is starting to laugh. Not only laugh, but there’s a growing mutual anger shared among them, and a few of them are getting to their feet. Geoff’s up in a second, snagging his jacket off the bench and tossing his cigarette over the side of the patio. He rushes to Michael’s side, grabbing him by the wrist and dragging him out the side entrance.

Neither of them look back to see if anyone’s following them, but they pick up speed out on the street, practically running along the cars parked on the curb until they both have stitches in their sides and they’re laughing and Geoff pulls Michael by the arm against his chest. He wraps him up tight and places a firm kiss to his head, breathing heavy and leaning against the nearest car.

It’s not until they’re closer to steady that Geoff realizes Michael’s gone stiff in the man’s arms. He lets him go and Michael pulls away carefully, watching Geoff like he’s a cornered animal ready to pounce. They stand in silence, Geoff five blocks from his car, Michael looking really at ease under streetlights.

“Sorry, dude.” Michael finally says, a half-hearted smirk perking up. “I’ll catch you another time, yeah?” 

Geoff’s brain is frantically searching for reasons to invite Michael back to Ryan’s house. Reasons they could spend a few more hours together. Reasons to kiss the boy one more time. He even opens his mouth to say some of them, and then he sees Michael avoid looking at him, and he sinks.

“Yeah. It’s been fun.” Geoff watches Michael think of what to say next. The boy shrugs, waving his hands on either side of him.

“It’s what I do.”

Geoff watches Michael trot down the street, back east toward downtown. He sighs, softly, when he’s finally out of view, and shrugs his jacket on over his shoulders, making his way back toward the bar to fetch his car and spend a lonely night in Ryan’s too-big Heights townhome. A cigarettes keeps his mouth busy so he’s not pouting, not walking down the street with a dramatic frown stuck to his face like a mask, and when he finally reaches his car he stomps the butt into the cement. Sidling in, he reaches for keys in his pocket and is struck by a very empty feeling there.

His keys jingle, alone in his front pocket, and panic settles in Geoff’s heart. Where the fuck is his wallet? He checks his back pockets, his right pocket, his jacket pockets. He finds a note, and slowly untucks it, out of breath and frantic. It’s written in black marker on the back of a bar coaster in simple handwriting.

‘It’s what I do ;)’

“Son of a bitch.”


	2. Chapter 2

When Michael ran away, he’d thought it was going to be like the movies.

Most days aren’t like the movies.

He catches the bus because he has money in his pocket, now. It’s never on time. Nothing’s ever on time in Houston. The lights are dimmed and the air conditioning is louder than his own thoughts. All he has to do is get downtown. Downtown is safe. Downtown is full of people like him, people who will know how to hustle money. He doesn’t have to explain anything to anyone downtown, all he has to do is sidle up somewhere warm and go to sleep for the night.

In the movies cute girls sit next to him on the bus. They chat about his curls, about how they have a brother with curls like his, but nowhere near as cute. Or sometimes a little boy sits next to him, and he talks about what it was like when he were a little boy.

In real life he’s squished against the window because the person next to him has their knees spread open. They smell like cigarette smoke or grease or piss, or all three. It’s not that they’re bad people, because Michael has met plenty of good people who smell like piss, it’s that for once in his miserable goddamn life he just wants it to be like the movies.

He’s lucky enough to be on a bus with only a few other people - no one smart would sit next to him unless they have to. His killer look and his dirty nails and his bruised cheek all say ‘beware’ and Michael’s done it all for a reason. He plants his feet far apart so he isn’t too jostled by the bumps in the road, and untucks a leather wallet from his back pocket.

 _Ten bucks the sucker gave me his real name_ , he thinks to himself, flipping the wallet open and plucking the ID from inside. To his surprise, there’s another one behind it. And another one behind that. Michael’s expression pinwheels as he reveals one card after another, squinting at each one.

He glances at the pictures, a new one every time, but pays closer attention to the dates and the names. Geoffrey Paul Fink. Geoffrey Fink. Geoff L Fink. Geoffrey Logan Ramsey. Geoff Ramsey. Geoffrey Lazer Ramsey. Michael laughs out loud at the final middle name, wondering who in the world could buy that. All six are from different states, the most recent one a familiar Texas ID. He tucks them back away, mouth downturned as he considers why the handsome stranger with a winning smile would need so many versions of himself. He chalks it up to a lot of travel, a sense of humor, maybe an existential crisis or two.

Inside the fold of the leather is the real jackpot. Michael thumbs over the slew of twenty dollar bills, never daring to pull them from their safe spot but counting them surreptitiously. There has to be at least a few hundred dollars there, and as he concentrates on counting less hastily, he ventures it’s a number close to five hundred.

Michael hasn’t scored this big in months. He closes his eyes, tucking the wallet back into his pocket and leaning into the uncomfortable seats in the back of the bus. It’s been slim - he’s had a lot of long nights searching for the perfect slab of cement to call his bed until morning. Worked a lot of drunk assholes into letting him shower, eat and rip them off of cash. Five hundred dollars can feed him for months if he’s careful.

He can only indulge in the fantasy of spending the money on a couple of plush nights in hotel rooms for a moment. But the idea of sidling up on a mattress - not a bus bench, not a sidewalk, not some stranger’s couch - and sipping on some drug store margaritas is so tempting that he cracks a smile despite his facade. He can see it now. Clean socks propped up on a pillow, late night cartoons playing in the dimmed room, a fresh pack of smokes, drinks. Maybe he’d jump back and forth on the beds.

The daydream - what are daydreams had at night called? - is cut short by the violent vibration in Michael’s pocket. He tilts his hips forward to reach into his pocket and withdraw a beat up looking flip phone, opening it with a _clack_ and reading the message.

 _capitol and louisiana, i’m at that plaza thing. any dough?_ Michael sinks his teeth into each other, reading the message over and over again before clicking out a reply.

 _Not rly, scored abt a 20 off barb at cecils any luck?_ Sometimes having a skill like lying comes in handy, but fuck if he hates doing it to friends. He’s pretty close to his stop by the time he gets a response.

 _nope. slowest night ever. one dude threw up before anything happened. why’d you fuck over barb? she’s cool._ Michael’s been wondering that, too. He slips the phone away, unable to bring himself to tell the story with his thumbs. He’d tell his friend tonight, lord knows they’d have time. But does he want to?

The after grift feeling doesn’t come. The satisfaction of fucking someone over, of winning a game, isn’t there. The weight of Ramsey’s wallet is heavy in his pocket and he doesn’t quite recognize the guilt he’s managed to accumulate. Sentiment isn’t his thing.

So why doesn’t he want to celebrate with Ray?

Michael lifts his shoulders, hardens his face, as the bus rounds the corner to his stop on Texas.  
He’s not so far gone that he doesn’t thank the bus driver, and stepping off onto the curb reminds him that this is his life. He doesn’t have time for guilt. He scans the multitudes of construction sites up and down the street - sometimes Ray sets himself up under the cover of scaffolding for the night.

His friend isn’t there, though, and Michael drags a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lips a smoke out. He lights it like it’s second nature, climbing the steps into the big plaza Ray’s supposedly camping out in. Instinctively, Michael checks the bathroom, but it’s locked and he huffs a smokey curse as he descends into the big concrete clearing and squints through the darkness. 

Ray’s sitting criss-cross on top of a table, tapping into one of his phones, distracted by whoever he’s talking to.

“Hey, you piece of shit.” Michael calls, and his friend reacts as if it’s his name. A smile perks up on Ray’s face but he doesn’t move, just waits for Michael to come to him, and he does.

“Heyyy, buddy. Gimme one of those.”

Michael produces another cigarette and passes it over, and the two lean in close to light it with Michael’s cherry. They smoke in silence, Michael dragging a chair out to collapse into it. Ray looks energized - like he’s just gone for a run or gotten a particularly nice compliment. It’s a nice reprise from the guy’s usual dismissive pessimism. Michael isn’t the most joyous of companions, but compared to Ray he’s the brightest ball of fucking sunshine the streets of Houston have seen.

“So what’s the story with Barb?” Ray prods, and Michael looks up to find he’s gone back to texting.

“Not a lot. I was broke, needed drinks. I did the burnt 20 trick.” Ray grunts in understanding, nodding slowly, frowning into his screen.

“Sooo, you’re telling me we can’t go to Cecil’s anymore.”

“No! It’s whatever. I mean I almost got in a fight-”

“Shocking.”

“Shut the fuck up. They love me there, we’re fine.” Michael takes a long, aggressive drag of his cigarette and taps the ash onto the ground. There’s no way he’ll tell Ray the whole story, now. He doesn’t need the fucking judgement. Enough of that to go around for days.

“Don’t you need someone else for that trick?” Ray’s peering at Michael, the backlight of his flip phone illuminating how the stubble on his chin is freshly shaved. How there’s product in his hair. Michael squints at him, making a note to figure that out later.

“Yeah, some asshole helped me. He felt really cool.” Michael dodges, shifting in his seat. He watches the paper of his cigarette flicker as it burns, tapping it again and not caring where the ashes fall. “So some dude puked on you?”

“Dude! Yeah. Poor guy’d never paid for sex before, I guess he was married or something. He was so nervous he like… spit up. Like a baby. I told him I could make it hot and he bolted like an asshole.” Ray’s put his phone away, now, grinning as he recounts his night. He takes a too-long drag and coughs as he exhales, leaning onto his palms as he looks out into the quiet street. “I didn’t have anyone else, either, so I’m way broke. You buy these tonight?” Ray holds the cigarette up.

“No, snagged ‘em from the asshole.” Michael lies, tapping his feet as he starts to feel restlessness take over. “What are we doing tonight, dude?”

“I think it’s gonna rain.” Michael tugs his jacket in closer, taking in the smallness of Ray. They could survive the rain. Maybe. But god, the wet socks and the slicked hair and the steamed, sopping night isn’t what either of them have in mind. Michael avoids thinking about the $500 burning in his back pocket, avoids trying to think of PINs for the cards, avoids how good they’d have it together if he just… told him.

But he’s selfish.

The other man is peering up at the orange and grey sky, evaluating the probability of downpour. Michael sighs, leaning his head as far back as it will go, eyes closed.

“We could, y’know, try the boss.” This perks Ray’s interest. Michael lolls his head around to look at him, and Ray is smiling, nodding like it’s the best idea Michael’s ever had. Michael returns the grin. He’s never suggested the boss’ house before, because, well, he hates it. Picket fenced and tall, a townhome in the Heights where everyone looks poor but owns a boat. But, fuck, it’s dry and he knows Ray enjoys the time they spend there. They never leave empty handed, whether it be full bellies, cash in hand or a job to do. “I assume you’re all for it?”

“Hell yeah, I’ll call him.” Ray slides off the table, tugging a second phone from his shorts pocket and wandering away from Michael’s eavesdropping. Michael can still hear his tone, though. Sweet like powdered sugar before sinking back down into familiarity. Normalcy. Michael perks an eyebrow, starting to have an inkling as to where the hair gel came from.

He heaves to his feet, too, giving he and Ray a little more space and daring to slide Geoff’s wallet back out of his pocket.

What the hell kind of name is Fink? Michael thumbs the IDs back out, trying to determine which of them is fake. He deciphers that each ID is part of a trail west, ending in Texas. The oldest is Alabama, with a fresh-faced, crooked-smiled teenager staring back at him. Logically, this must be Geoff’s real ID, which means his first name was real. Michael frowns. He’d hoped, honestly, that every ounce of information Geoff had given him would be fake. It made the guilt easier to kill.

The next ID reveals a short stint in Georgia, only a few months apart from the date on Mississippi. Geoff looks a little harder in this image. Smaller features, more hair creeping up his jaw. Arkansas is next and Geoff looks like an entirely different man. Clean cut. Grinning, but the goofiness of his teen years has dissipated. He’s confident. There’s something secretive about the image.

Michael’s favorite is Louisiana. Geoff isn’t yet his familiar, hip Texas self; he’s lost the composure of Arkansas. Louisiana is wild. A beard down to his collar, hair shuffled every which way. A distinct lack of smile. Geoff looks like someone Michael could have met on the streets. Like someone he would have shared whiskey with stowed away on a boxcar. Michael clenches his jaw against the urge to store the ID in the breast pocket of his jacket. Too much sentimentality has hit him tonight - he thought it was long dead.

Ray strolls back around the corner, tucking his phone back away and curiously peering at Michael’s contraband.

“Dude? Did you score in the ten minutes I was gone?” Ray jokes, reaching for the wallet just in time for Michael to stuff its contents back and yank it away from the other man’s reach. “What the hell?”

“It’s nothing.” Michael evades, stepping away and sinking into his jacket with shrug. “We got a place to stay?”

“Yep. Just gotta get over there.” There’s never any lasting tension between Michael and Ray. It melts away as fast as it comes. It’s just better that way.

“I just got off the last Heights bus.”

“Better get to steppin’, then.”

The part of the Heights they’re heading to is about a ten minute drive from downtown. Speed and precision only gets them so far, though, and even without wasting time it will take over an hour. Finally on White Oak, where the bars are almost empty and only a few stragglers are on the streets, they stop only to bum cigarettes because Michael’s long out. They don’t make conversation with the couple avoiding sleep at a bus stop on Studewood, except that Ray compliments the dozens of beaded bracelets up and down their arms. They light their smokes and as they head toward Heights Boulevard, Ray mumbles to Michael.

“Fucking ravers.” Michael giggles and Ray pushes, glad to hear the laugh. “PLUR, Michael! PLUR! I need to feel the _vibes, Michael_! I’m surrounded by the loving glow of shuffle dancing! PLUR! God, they should call if PLURFF. Peace, love, unity, respect and fist fighting. Ravers will fight you, dude. They will fight you and tell _you_ to chill.”

“Dude, they gave us cigarettes.”

“Right? What’s up with that? Like we can’t get cancer. They’re killing us with kindness.” Ray turns to walk backwards, pointing at Michael. “I’m looking out for you.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

The walk is pleasant despite the time it takes, until big drops of rain put out their smokes and smack them hard on the shoulders, the heavy droplets sliding off of the big oak leaves on Heights. Ray puts his hood up and Michael suffers damp curls, but they’re almost there. Just a few more blocks.

The boss’ house is raised like a lot of the houses in the Heights - it’s where the neighborhood gets its name. Houses on hills. It isn’t wide, but it’s three stories tall and surrounded by a chest-high wrought iron fence with a coded lock at the entrance. Michael hates everything about the homey, snug town home. Except that it isn’t raining in there.

Ray is on the phone again, bouncing on his heels as he shivers in his sweater. Michael, wet to the bone, examines a car parked on the street. A hatchback, blue and stuffed to the brim with knick knacks and clothes and furniture, even. He cups his eyes and squints through the slick glass, trying to figure out what kind of company the bossman keeps. The ashtray is full. Seat tipped back, driver’s side window still cracked. He can just barely make out shapes of what appear to be wooden sculptures, and he doesn’t take the boss for an artsy kind of guy. Whoever this is must just be passing through.

“Hey!” Michael spins around like he’s been caught. Ray has the gate open and gives Michael an incredulous look. “C’mon, dude, it’s about to typhoon.”

They bustle up the stairs, crowding the door to keep under the awning. As Michael reaches for the knob, Ray snags his wrist and pulls him with a tight grasp.

“Dude. Do not.” He warns, and Michael rolls his eyes. A light clicks on from inside the house and the heavy mahogany door opens to reveal a man Michael never remembers being so tall. He breaks into a grin at the sight of the boys, soaked like stray cats.

“No umbrellas?” Michael glares as Ray barks an obedient laugh, pandering. But the other man pushes past the mountain of a man into the hallway and Michael, unable to conjure subservience, has to wait to be invited inside. He meets the boss’ eyes with every step. “Think I’m gonna pat you down? I’m in my PJs for fuck’s sake.”

Ray’s laughing again and the sound grates Michael inside, leaving him alone in a room of three. He doesn’t have the patience for the school boy cutie pie shit his friend puts on around the boss. The man is intimidating. He doesn’t _frighten_ Michael, but the boy knows enough about big white homeowners not to piss them off. Plus, he’s never seen the man so comfortable, even in his own home, and it’s got him on edge.

“Just never seen your face this close.”

“Oh my God,” Ray erupts in realization, already tucking his shoes into a cubby by the door. “You’ve never seen Ryan in street clothes, huh? He’s a real guy, you know.”

“Ray, shh.” Ryan whispers, locking the door behind him and taking the smaller man’s hoodie from his hands. “I’ve got a friend passed out upstairs. Had a real rough day. Try to keep it down.”

“Yes, sir.” Ray’s response is instant. He stills, watching Ryan hang his sweater on a hook by the door. He offers to take Michael’s jacket, but he’s rejected by a quick jerk away. “Michael doesn’t like to be touched.”

“Noted.” Ryan remarks, flipping the light off and gesturing that they take the stairs ahead of him.

Michael’s discomfort is ever growing. He’s never been up these stairs, always slept on the couch downstairs in the tidy living area made for strangers. He can tell Ray has been here on his own. The way the pair whispers over Michael’s head as they climb the stairs, the big hand that settles on Ray’s lower back as they reach the landing, the instinctive reach Ray makes for an unfamiliar door. Everything Ray does, he’s done before, and Michael’s never felt more out of place. Especially not in the company of Ray, his best friend for countless years, now.

Ryan’s silent as he opens a bedroom door and nods Ray into the room. Michael doesn’t even get a glance goodbye before his friend disappears. Attention shifts to the man waiting for Michael.

“Upstairs is two bedrooms and a bathroom if you want to shower. The first door is taken, sorry, you get the smaller one.”

“Fine by me.” Michael quickly goes to round the next flight of stairs, desperate to get away from the tension.

“Mike.”

“Michael.” Michael corrects sharply, pausing to hear Ryan out.

“A thank you wouldn’t be unappreciated.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

\--

The tile in the bathroom isn’t even cold. Michael’s been warmed from tip to toe, anger mixed with memory heating his senses. As he slips off his shoes he realizes there are clothes scattered across the white of the floor - black socks and trousers, and the nicest belt Michael’s ever seen. He bends to scoop it up, thumbing over the clean edges of the leather, the threading embedded in the material in little x’s. In one swift motion, Michael wraps the belt around his knuckles and stuffs it into his pocket.

Yoink.

Usually it isn’t a shock to see himself in the mirror. However dirty, however bruised, Michael knows himself when he sees his reflection. He is dirty. And he is bruised. 

But as he slips out of his clothes, slowly, he tries to avoid the sight of his body. The whole goddamn wall is a bright, shiny mirror though and he catches glimpses. The man on the wall is someone soft, someone full of affection. Bruises on his hips, where thumbs have been. Scarlet patterns of lust from the memory ragged over his neck and stomach. Regret, remorse, guilt in his face.

Michael doesn’t like this man.

In fact, he hates him. He hates that this man, unable to weave his way out of the image of tattooed fingers wrapped around him, is half hard just at the thought. The water he runs is scalding - hot enough to burn. Boil away his skin so that all is left is bones, and bones cannot feel guilt. Carve red spots into his skin to wash away the splotches of arousal. 

He steps into his first shower of the week, heels rushing with heat, crown of his head on fire. His shoulders melt under the steady beat of warm water and he bows forward, watching the dust of the city swirl around his feet. God, but he’s still fucking hard - he’s still bucking into a wandering hand.

How dare Geoff slip so easily into Michael’s psyche? Ten years on the road and Michael has never felt a lasting mark on his consciousness, not until Geoff. Ten fucking years of the most interesting people on the planet popping in and out of Michael’s life, and one man sidles in with a sob story and a pretty face and takes hold of his most private moments.

Fuck that guy. God, Michael would.

The thought catches Michael wildly off guard. He’s forever thankful for the heavy pulsing noise of the shower because anger is dangerous and loud and Michael has never had the easiest time controlling that impulse. The growl that escapes is animal and the clatter of shampoo bottles hitting the tub strikes an embarrassing chord that settles, at least, the physical part of his shame.

It’s no use. He’s hard as a rock at the thought of those tattooed fingers, that eager mouth. The way Geoff had seemed desperate for an affection Michael couldn’t give. There’s a foreign need to please that hasn’t been fulfilled in Michael, and he gives in to himself. Again.

As he wraps a hand around his cock he smacks his head against the shower wall. The pain and the noise strikes him into action and it isn’t long before he’s beating off in the boss’ guest bathroom. The unfamiliar scent of sex is rinsed off by now, but the clean scent of shampoo has drifted from where it spilled at his feet. It’s sterile and Michael feels like he’s experimenting on some new discovery, learning how to fuck his hand.

It’s been years since he let himself.

He’s clumsy, fingers slipping over the head of his dick until he finds a more steady rhythm. At first he tries his hardest not to think of Geoff - anything but Geoff. Anything but pink lips on the tip of his cock, the taste of the man’s cum on Michael’s tongue, the way his cock fit into Michael’s throat as he fucked his face. But he doesn’t have anything else to reference - nothing remotely sexual to coax his mind into the same state his body’s taken on. So he thinks of Geoff.

His knees buckle and Michael sinks into the tub, browbeaten by the stream. He picks back up on stroking himself, water gathering around his thighs. If he tries hard enough the warm wetness can be Geoff’s mouth around him, precise and skilled. His hand can be Geoff’s hand. He can hear Geoff sucking in air as he lips his cock. Back in the bathroom stall, Michael can be the weak man that gives into lust, the man Geoff had been attracted to. He whimpers as the heat takes over and instinct guides his hand.

Getting off is easier than he remembers. Pressure fills up his middle as he slides onto his back, face just clear of the water, pads of his feet pressed to the tub to keep him steady. He tilts his head into the puddle around him, mouth ripped open by the groan he can’t stop. As if he’d always done this, as if he got off every night, Michael reaches his free hand to his balls and rounds them in his palm before pressing a careful finger against his asshole.

There’s barely enough time to consider calling it hesitation before he’s reaching around his leg, sinking a finger two knuckles deep into his asshole. He finds himself pliant and hot and he rocks against his hand, matching the depth with another finger until he’s whining and shoving his face against his shoulder to try to shut the fuck up.

He can’t control every noise, though, and as his orgasm builds deep in the pit of his stomach a strangled cry escapes and water sucks into his throat as he cums.

Thoroughly distracted, Michael sits straight up, sputtering into the crook of his elbow as he finds his hands again. He heaves and chokes, spitting water into water and sucking in deeply to find some air.

Michael has been blissfully ignorant about the noises he’s made until he smacks a hand against the wall in an effort to regain his breath. He’s met by an insistent rapping against the bathroom door and he freezes, still rasping against the closed up feeling of his throat.

“Yeah?” He calls, coughing as he gathers himself up and tries to forget the last twenty minutes has happened.

“Can you make anymore noise in there, asshole?” Geoff teases, an edge of annoyance in his voice. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”

“Geoff…?” Michael’s gone still, and a flash of hope flings him out of his body. Back to the bathroom stall with Geoff’s fingers over his face, his precious praise melting his bones. It sparks the anger again and he slams the water off, shoving the shower curtain aside and stepping out. Charging like a bull, he wraps himself in a towel and goes for the door handle, and then he remembers.

He has Geoff’s wallet in his back pocket. He glances down at the clothing leftover on the floor and realizes he has the man’s belt in his front pocket. He’s cornered and his heart is slamming against his chest as he hears the voice again.

Please be hearing things. _Please_ be sentimental.

“You little shit.” Geoff shoulders the door - it slams and echoes through the bathroom. Michael scrambles to find his clothes, clumsy and scared. He slides into his underwear at least before Geoff’s got the door open.

Michael is lifted off the ground before his whole back hits the wall. God, he hates to feel so surprised by the expanse of tattooed skin on the man’s arm, but he eyes Geoff’s arm anyway, even as it presses into his throat. There’s no way to get a word in, his nails digging into the man’s skin - but he’s good at fighting. He can get out of this.

“Where the fuck is my wallet?” Geoff growls, pressing harder so Michael chokes against him and his vision crackles. Michael reaches desperate, clawing hands onto Geoff’s throat and a thumb sinks into his windpipe. He’s released and finds his toes haven’t been on the ground, and he trips onto the floor with enough clarity of mind to gather his clothes and run.

Geoff’s right on his ass, and Michael doesn’t take any moments to check behind him. He stumbles down the stairs, shouting for Ray, trying his damndest to throw clothes on as he goes. The man is insane. Geoff barrels after Michael - he’s barefoot and in boxers and still he’s scarier than any big dude Michael has escaped from. There’s something monstrous about this chase, something that flutters Michael from the inside out until he’s at the front door, dressed except his shoes, and begging for escape.

“What the fuck is going on?” Ryan’s voice booms over the lot of them - Michael turns to realize the boss is between he and Geoff, and Ray is just behind on the stairs. “It’s five in the fucking morning.”

“This little asshole stole my wallet!” Geoff tries to shove past Ryan and is shoved to a seat on the end of the stairs, roar ripping through him as he tries again and succeeds. Michael goes wide in the eyes as Geoff advances and, before he has a chance to calculate, a tattooed fist meets him in the cheek. Michael is on the floor, clutching at what’s sure to be bleeding soon.

“Ramsey, you fucking moron.” Ryan is yelling, dragging Geoff back before the man gets to rifle through Michael’s pockets. “That’s the kid’s goddamn job, he doesn’t know who you are.”

From the top of the stairs, Ray’s voice appears in the cacophony.

“You had cash, dude?”

“Over five hundred goddamn dollars, not counting my goddamn bank accounts.” Geoff fights with words now, settled by Ryan’s harsh look. Michael watches from his spot on the hardwood, breathing heavy and trying to catch Ray’s eye. “I want my shit back.”

“Here,” Michael spits, finding that the blood is inside his mouth rather than on his cheek. “Take your fucking money.” He untucks the wallet from his pocket, tossing it at Geoff’s bare feet, spitting again onto Ryan’s floor. “C’mon, Ray, let’s get the fuck out of this shithole.”

“No, dude.”

What? Michael’s run out of shock. He swallows blood, unable to find the energy to get to his feet with this final blow. Ray’s his best friend. Ray’s all he has, the only person who gets it.

“You didn’t take the money.” Geoff muses, thumbing through the cash before settling the wallet back into his own pocket. “Guess making you cum sweetened you up.” Without looking at Michael, Geoff ascends the stairs. Like this scene is suddenly too good for him. Michael doesn’t watch him go - he stares Ray down, pleading with him silently.

“I was gonna tell you.” Michael mutters, and he sinks his eyes to the floor in some kind of submission. He fucked up. He knows he fucked up. And now Ray knows it.

“I’ll leave you two alone. Ray.” Michael looks up in time to see Ryan give his friend a hard look, and Ray nods. Ryan disappears into his bedroom, and then it’s just Ray and Michael. Like it’s always been.

The silence drags the consciousness Michael left behind in the bathroom back into him. He shivers under Ray’s betrayed gaze. It’s always been them. It’s supposed to always be them. 

“Did you fuck him?” Michael swallows hard, face scrunching together as he stops himself from feeling it. Ray’s judgement. Ray’s fear and his worry and his sickness. “Michael.”

“No! No, fuck, you know I wouldn’t.” Michael stutters, leaning up so his hands are free to scrub over his face. He hisses as he catches the bruises, and Ray’s harsh laugh hurts worse. “Ray, I was gonna tell you-”

“I guess I don’t know you at all.” Ray interrupts, shaking his head, fingers tracing a nervous pattern onto the banister. He turns to leave, to head back to Ryan’s bed, before he changes his mind and comes down the stairs about halfway. “Michael, I don’t think you should come back here.”

“What?” Ray's quiet for a moment, considering his words.

“Ramsey can have you killed." Michael can't even process that Ray knows Geoff's name. He can't figure out where all the puzzle pieces fit. "He’s done it for less. I think you should go.” Michael’s on his feet, swiping his jacket from the floor and shrugging it on. He starts to ask Ray if he can call him, if he can make it better again. “Don’t. Just go. I’ll see you when I see you.” This time Ray really does leave. He waves a hand at his side as he turns, gesturing the entire situation away from him, and Michael watches him hesitate at Ryan’s door. And then he’s gone.

Michael finds himself under a bridge. Like a rookie. A few other bums - fuck, he’s never thought of himself as a bum - offer him a blanket and some vodka and he takes the gifts gladly and without shame, drinking around a trashcan fire. It’s a classic image. Like the movies. No one asks him about the bloody lip, about the bruises, about his apathy. He just goes to sleep, and in the morning, he’ll figure it out.


End file.
